"He is! Thank God then! Thank God! And my father! It has made him ill.
He liked him so! I am going for medicine now. Will you go in and speak
to him?"
She turned and called. "It is Mr. Jones--a friend of Mr. Lennox." She
turned again. "I will be back in a minute."
Beyond, in the room with the piano and the painted warrior, the musician
lay on a sofa, bundled in a rug. There was not much space on the sofa,
yet, as Jones entered, he seemed to recede. Then, cavernously, he spoke.
"Forgive me for not rising. This business has been too much for me. Sit
down."
Jones put his hat on the table and drew a chair. "I am sorry it has
upset you. It amounts to nothing."